To Sever a Snake
by amethyst x
Summary: A snake is expected to lash out and bite. A Slytherin is expected to be cruel. A Gryffindor is expected to be brave. But when ties are broken, and loyalties are confused, which side would one chose? Perhaps the darkest hours .. could be the truest moments
1. Prologue

_Prologue:_

The Ghost of You

_---_

_At the end of the world  
Or the last thing I see  
You are  
Never coming home  
Could I? Should I?  
And all the things that you never ever told me  
And all the smiles that are ever going to haunt me …_

_---_

"Let me see her!" The black-haired man wrestled in his wife's grasp, his face drawn and somber. "I need to see her!"

"She needs to be alone," the woman replied, trying to sound calm, but her voice broke. Her own face was held in sorrow and loss. "Harry, please, give her time … "

"You don't understand," he responded, struggling free of her hold. Her eyes were pained, and Harry softened, "She … she's my best friend, Ginny. She'll be hurting more than all of us, and …" Ginny looked away, biting her lip hard, "… and she needs someone there with her. I need to go."

He turned, and Ginny sunk down in a chair, her hands clasped tightly on her lap. "You're always leaving," she said softly. "I need you, too, Harry."

"I'm sorry." He kissed his wife swiftly on the cheek, and grabbed his cloak, moving toward the door.

"I can go with you," she spoke up suddenly from the chair. Harry turned back. Her eyes were large and brimming with tears. Her voice cracked as she talked, "I'm her friend, too. We can both go …"

"Ginny …" Harry looked at her solemnly.

Ginny smiled sadly. "I'll see you in the morning, then." She looked down firmly at her feet, but couldn't stop herself from wincing when the door slammed shut.

---

She lay on the couch, an empty bottle of Firewhiskey on one side, and a small handwritten letter on the other. She didn't move as she heard the crack of Apparition, and the sound of a voice speaking to her.

"Hermione …"

The voice sounded sad. She didn't flinch as a pair of familiar arms found their way around her neck.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione."

_It wasn't his fault, it wasn't his fault_! Hermione stared up at the ceiling, suddenly wishing for solitude when just moments ago she would have done anything for his company.

"This is all my fault."

"It is _not _your fault, okay?" she snapped. She stared away as she saw the hurt on his face from her words. _He was being stupid_.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop being _sorry_!" she shouted. Her voice echoed through the lonely chambers of her home. The silence beat at her, tearing her apart and putting her on display for the world to see. Her breath hitched, and her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. "It's not your fault, okay?" She whispered.

"Okay," he responded, his own lips twitching, trying to stop himself from crying.

"Harry, he's gone," she said quietly, her large brown eyes flitting around his face, taking in every bit of his sorrow. "He's _gone_."

"I know." His voice was weak. She could see a tear slide down his pale face, leaving a thin, clear river. Hermione couldn't stop herself as she fell forward onto her friend, her shoulders shaking. Sobs racked from her throat, and tears fell from her eyes, drenching Harry's sweater as he held her tightly.

"He's _gone_!" she cried, digging her nails into Harry's shoulders. _The pain would stop soon, it had to stop, it would, it had to_… "He's gone, he's gone, he's gone …"

Harry held her tight, his own tears falling slowly. He didn't know what else he could say. He couldn't even comfort himself, how could he comfort someone who probably hurt even more than him?

---

A man with long, pale fingers sat in jail, reading an article from the _Daily Prophet_.

_Ronald Weasley, friend to Harry Potter and war hero, has been killed today in his own home. It seems to be the result of a post-war rampage, brought on by the few remaining un-caught Death Eaters. The Minister of Magic has assured the public that though this casualty has indeed been tragic, it will not happen again, as the Death Eaters responsible are now behind bars._

The man holding the paper snorted. _As if._

_Ron Weasley has left behind a loving wife, doting parents, and numerous siblings. His presence will be sorely missed._

A small, unreadable smirk crept upon the man's face. Lifting a thin finger, he turned the page.

_The funeral will be held on Tuesday of next week._

He carefully folded the paper in half and stood up, walking over towards the guard.

He handed him the paper, his fingers stretching through the gaps in the iron bars. It almost, sometimes, gave him the illusion that he was free, if only for a moment.

"I'm finished," he drawled.

The guard, who had been dozing off, started, and quickly took the paper. "Sad thing, that," he said offhandedly.

The prisoner raised an eyebrow, wondering fleetingly why the guard was trying to make small talk with a convicted Death Eater. "Indeed."

"'E was a great man, that Ron Weasley," the guard nodded solemnly toward the paper, as though giving his condolences.

_I am surrounded by morons._ "Oh, I'm sure," he said quietly, his voice bored and dry.

The guard didn't seem to mind. _Oh, joy_. "I can't believe 'e's actually gone."

The prisoner was sure he thought he saw a tear in the man's eye. Rapidly losing interest, he inspected his nails. "It is a terrible loss."

The guard shot him a look. "Eh, you wouldn't care though, would ya?"

_How sharp you are_. "Casualties happen every day," he said, his tone dull.

"Not any more, they don'," he replied sharply. "Wars over, ainnit?" The guard looked down at the paper again, frowning sadly. "I'm feeling sorry for his wife right now, though, aren't I?"

"Are you?" he responded, almost, _almost _rolling his eyes.

"Sure am. That Hermione Granger, eh? They were all best friends in Hogwarts, weren't they? Her, Harry and Ron. But – I suppose you'd know that, wouldn't ya? Ya taught 'em, that right?"

The prisoner sighed, agitated. "I did," he said quietly, through gritted teeth. A distant laugh sounded from a few cells over. "_Shut up, Lestrange_!" he snapped at the offending prisoner.

The guard was now looking at him what could only be described as disgust. "And, eh, then you go and betray 'em all? Despicable, I tell you, despicable."

"And here I was thinking you didn't know such a big word," responded the prisoner.

The guard glared at him. "You deserve whatever sentence is handed to ya, don't ya, Snape?" He threw the newspaper on his chair and turned away from the prisoners cell.

His long, thin fingers clasped together tightly, Snape walked back to the corner of his cell. His eyes fell on the barred window, and he saw the fleeting image of a bird flying by. His eyes closed and he let himself believe, for one moment, that he was out there, too.

---

_A/N: This will be a multi-chapter pairing. Please, **please** R&R, I am desperate for constructive criticism. I will probably experiment a few times with this chapter, depending on the feedback I receive, so I will more likely than not be deleting this, and then reposting it, until I finally get to where I'm content with this story. If you are interested in reading later chapters in futures, I suggest you put me on author alert as I **will eventually be making this mulit-chapter**__I hope everyone liked this little tid-bit, and thank you for clicking on my story and checking it out. It's much appreciated._

_The lyrics used at the beginning our from My Chemical Romance, The Ghost of You_

_The review option is just a few clicks away …  
_


	2. Chapter the First

**Ultimate disclaimer for all previous and future chapters: Harry Potter****_is _not mine. It never, ever, ever will be. Unfortunately.**

_Chapter the First:_

Never Too Late

_---_

_The world we knew  
Won't come back  
The time we've lost  
Can't get back  
The life we had  
Won't be ours again_

_---_

"Ronald Billius Weasley was a giver. He was a sacrificial, loving human being, who would do anything for those who he loved and in the name of what was right. His own life mattered not when the lives of those he knew were in danger. Ron was a hero."

A lone, bushy-haired woman, draped in a black shawl, black robes, and a large black hat, stared up at the sky at these words, her eyes blank and a half-hearted smile on her face. _And I had always thought these words would be the ones I'd hear about Harry_, she mused.

The short, robust man chirped away, seemingly unaware of the fact most of the attending mourners were paying no attention to him whatsoever. The woman's smile was wistful. The words that were being said were only words. He hadn't known Ron. He didn't know what the words he was saying actually _meant_.

"He was loved my many, including a caring a family," he nodded to the rest of the Weasley's. The gang of redheads merely looked at him. Ginny was staring down at her feet, tears in her eyes, and Harry wrapped tightly around her waist, "loyal friends," his eyes now darted toward Harry. The man held his glance at Harry a moment too long, "and a doting wife." He need not even bothered to look in Hermione's direction. The witch with the misunderstood expression and billowing black attire was nowhere to been seen.

Many missed the man's momentarily confused expression, but not Harry. "Where is she?" he whispered to Ginny, moving his arm to peer over the horizon to look for his friend. "When did she leave?"

"How would I know?" Ginny replied, her words almost too harsh for her own taste. She stared hard at the ground. Harry sighed, running his hands slowly and painfully through his tangled hair.

"Ginny …" He snaked his arm up to her shoulders. She pushed him off roughly.

"Harry, just go already," she snapped, turning to back to the man talking before he noticed any interruption.

His emerald eyes gleamed, before he turned and left, hands shoved in his pockets.

Ginny stood still, her eyes unmoving and her breath slowed, before a pair of strong arms rapped themselves around her neck.

"I'm going to miss him so much," she croaked. She drew in a racking breath and fell back against the man behind her.

"I know," Charlie's breath was warm on her face. His grip tightened around her, and a single tear streaked down her cheek. "I know you will, Gin."

Ginny covered her mouth with her hand, her lips quivering dangerously underneath them. She stared hard at the sky, trying to forget, needing to forget.

She couldn't.

---

The sky was dark.

The clouds swirled in dangerous circles, thickening and thinning, covering the sun and threatening to rain. The gods were tempting her, playing with her mind. The wind whistled. _Maybeee_, it screamed in her ear, its voice high and shrieking, _maybeee_.

She was unsteady, her hand clasped to a low branch of the tree behind her. She was trying desperately to control her breath, telling herself for the millionth time it would be okay, it would be fine. The wind screeched again, not leaving her be. She wanted to yell, she wanted to wrestle around blindly, kicking and punching. She was so helpless, standing here, her sight weaving in and out of focus. She was pathetic.

_Maybeee, _it screamed at her.

_Go away! _She screamed right back. Her ears pounded with blood. She could never be alone. No one understood. They were always pestering her with questions. _Are you all right?_ They would sympathize, their big, watery eyes staring her down, looking comforting but really just wanting to know. Wanting to know how she felt, if she was close to a breakdown, if she needed to cry, so they could go back and tell all their friends just how _awful_ poor little Hermione Granger was doing, without her strong, loving husband by her side. It was pity, and curiosity. It was a dangerous combination, one she just couldn't stand for.

_Maybeee, _the wind bellowed, louder and more menacing than ever.

"_Shut up_!" she screamed. All breath in her body suddenly seemed to leave, and she felt herself falling fast before her back collided with something hard.

"Are you all right?"

It seemed like ages before Hermione finally willed her eyes to open. The voice had come from a man, standing a few feet away from her, looking worried. When he saw her eyes open, he came towards her, hand extended. "Let me help you up," he said, grasping her hand tightly.

Hermione let him pull her off the ground, taking in his appearance slowly. He had a narrow, sharp face, one that reminded her annoyingly of Percy Weasley's, save for the glasses. His eyes were a dark, dull blue, ones that gave her the impression that he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed. His hair was a sort of rusty-gold, but when the light hit it, it resembled the striking red of the Weasley clan. Her heart gave a pained thump.

"Are you a Weasley, then?" She accused, feeling terribly moody as she straightened herself up, letting go off his hand as though burned.

"Prewett, actually," he answered, and Hermione registered surprise. She had thought all the Prewetts, save for Molly, had passed on.

"Oh," was all she managed, feeling neither talkative nor in the mood to introduce herself.

The man apparently wasn't getting the message. "I suppose I should introduce myself," he told her, extending his hand. He had a wistful smile, his head tilted slightly to the side. Hermione took his hand quickly. "I'm Derek," he told her, and she promptly dropped his hand.

"Wonderful to meet you," she told him dryly, turning to leave. She wanted to be anywhere but here.

"I know who you are, already, if that's the problem," his voice called after her. She stopped. Sunshine broke through the dark clouds, and she felt heat push against her face.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Weasley."

Hermione licked her lips tentatively, turning back around. _Mrs. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley. _The ring of that title still hadn't sunk in. To her, it felt so out of place. And it would ever stay that way, now.

"I don't need your condolences," she told him harshly, watching his features carefully. He seemed unaffected. "It's your loss as well."

"I didn't know him very well." The wistful smile still was on his face. Hermione suddenly felt angry. This was a funeral! How _dare_ he?

"Well, then, why are you here?" she snapped.

His dull eyes glinted for a moment. "Well, I suppose it's because I wished I _had_ known him better. He had been a great man, and a great loss not to know so well," he said finally. Hermione's eyes narrowed. Perhaps he was not as daft as he seemed. "You were a very lucky woman."

"Suppose I'm not very lucky now," she shot back. Derek's expression finally faltered, but she felt far from triumphant.

"I suppose you're not," he told her baldly. His voice was very soft, and held not much expression, but somehow felt terribly intense. Hermione narrowed her eyes to slits, watching him, taking him in slowly. "I know what it's like to lose someone," she heard him continue, his quiet voice pleasantly not grating. "I know what it's like to be pitied."

"Goodie for you," Hermione snapped, but she herself could hear the loss of venom in her words.

He smiled. "You're quite the character, Hermione." He sounded teasing, but Hermione wasn't sure.

"How dare you," she seethed. But any fury was lost on her, she felt merely wiped out.

"I'm sorry if I'm being horribly forward," he said, sitting back against the tree trunk, his white teeth stretched and shining in a smile up at her. "But I felt somebody had to be."

"I'd rather like it if you left," she growled, teeth gritted. She positioned herself right in front of him, hands on her hips, teeth barred and firmly standing in his way of the sun.

He looked at her, still smiling. "Actually, I fancy sitting right here for a while," he said plainly.

"I was here first," she snapped back, grabbing hold of on his hands. "Stand up!" She tugged, and felt a firm grip pull her down to the ground. She coughed, and crawled to her knees, her long, flowing black robes covered in dirt and stained with grass. "Look what you've done!" She snapped. He continued smiling, his white teeth unbearable. Hermione let out a sound of rage and slapped him soundly on the shoulder. _Smug bastard_!

"Hermione?"

The voice was familiar. Hermione glanced up with reluctance, seeing the shadowed figure of Harry running towards her.

She tensed. Harry met her within seconds, looking worried. "I've been looking for you…" He glanced quickly between Derek and her dirtied robes. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, brushing off her robes and giving him what she wanted to think was a comforting nod. Harry nodded, and pulled Hermione to her feet.

"Did you just need some fresh air?" he said understandingly. Hermione nodded again, glad for an out. Harry cast a wary glance at Derek, who grinned and waved, before turning back to Hermione. "We should be going back."

"Of course." She let Harry slip a comforting hand around her waist, feeling the familiarity and warmth it held calm her. As they began to walk off, she turned her head, catching Derek's eye. His hair was shining flaming red like a Weasley's, and his eyes held a mischievous, clever twinkle she had missed before. Then, to her dismay, he winked at her. Eyes widening in shock, she did what any sensible woman in her position would do. She turned back to Harry, and fingered the jerk behind her back.

As she walked back to the site of the funeral, she had gained one thing: a warm, uplifting feeling of accomplishment.

---

Snape was having an especially bad day.

Generally, in prison, most days tended to be bad, due to the fact that you were locked in a small cage complete with iron bars and that you had to go to the loo in front of tens of other, suspicious looking men.

But today was the worst kind.

He had been put on kitchen duty, which was not only absolutely disgusting, but the inmates had a tendency to throw their trays of food right back at him. Snape was not a liked man. He supposed it was because he actually had a brain.

Next, he had just discovered it was his cellmate's execution day, which didn't really bother him, but it earned him a new, more disgusting, more illiterate, more violent cellmate. His name appeared to actually be 'Brute' and he had a tendency to hit Snape every time he saw him, which, really, was quite a lot.

Not only that, but he had heard the guards talking: The Wizengamot was planning a hearing to determine his sentence, some time next week. This, no doubt, meant he would be dead within a month.

Not exactly a mood booster.

Snape supposed, really, that he could tell everyone he was an innocent man. But it wouldn't make much of a difference, being as there had been a witness to Dumbledore's murder, and he had no evidence whatsoever to prove his innocence. He knew he shouldn't really care and, really, he supposed he didn't. He _knew_ this was how it was going to turn out. This had been the plan all along. And, Merlin knows, death would probably be millions of times better than the life he was living. At the time, Snape had thought he would welcome death. But now that it was actually staring him in the face, he couldn't help but feel slightly … hesitant.

He knew he certainly had nothing to look forward to in life. Heavens, no. But what did he have to look forward to in death? He probably shouldn't be thinking of looking forward to anything, anyways. Never had life given him anything, and death shouldn't, either. It was simply his way.

"Oi!" Snape looked up, his hands fiddling with the remains of an old potions text he was holding. The lovely Brute was squinting at him, his fat, lopsided face scrunched in concentration. It appeared that along with intense denseness, Brute was also blind. "Wharre you readin', 'ere?" Brute had a nasty little habit of forgetting letters, and squashing words together. It was quite grating, after awhile.

"Something much too complicated for you," replied Snape, with a waxy smile to match his bored tone.

Brute grunted. "Ya mite be smarmy now," he slurred, a smug smile forcing its way through the fat and grubbiness of Brute's face. "But jus' waih. I'll be livin' a lot longer than you, Snape."

As Snape's eyes flickered back to his reading, and Brute's maddening laughter filled the cell, he couldn't seem to ignore the small, tugging feeling of want, of what could maybe be.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he cleared his mind, as he been so used to doing for so many years. Letting a feeling of cool blankness wash over him, he exhaled and turned back to his book, his expression as cold as ever.

---

**_A/N: _**Thank you for all the reviews! They, really and truly, make my day. I hope you'll review again. We all know you want to.

Song used in this chapter is _Never Too Late_ by Three Days Grace. Yes, I am a bit of a dark-ansty song lover and will be using a lot of those kind of songs. Pathetic? Oh, definately.

Also, if anyone is interested in reading over/editing an emailed copy of my story (beta'ing, basically), it'd be much appreciated, because at the moment, I am desperately beta-less. However, I am trying my very hardest to catch all spelling errors, so I hope this chapter was smooth enough to read.

I hope you all enjoyed!

A review is just a click away ...

_---_

_Coming up:_

"_You!" she snapped, feeling her face flush. "What are you doing here?"_

_---_


	3. Chapter the Second

_Chapter the Second:_

Chasing Cars

_---_

_All that I am  
All that I ever was  
Was there in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see_

_I don't know where  
Confused about how as well  
Just know that these things would never change for us at all_

_---_

The Weasley's kitchen table was especially crowded the next morning, but not a soul was speaking.

Hermione sat still, her mug of coffee clasped tightly in her hands. Every few moments, her eyes would flicker up to the large family clock, still ticking away. The long, purple hand that had been there for as long as knew had now disappeared. The clock looked eerie and empty without it, and every time she looked, some part of her instinctively still kept looking for it, waiting for the scribbled words, _Ronald Weasley_, to jump out at her. They never did, and she could feel her heart just about crumble into dust.

No one seemed to have even touched breakfast. It was for the best, really, because if they had, they would most likely have come down with stomachache. Mrs. Weasley broke down in tears half way through cooking the bacon, so it was still quite raw. The poor woman was now shaking, slightly calmer in the arms of her husband, who had taken to staring blankly out the window. Fred and George were stirring their tea simultaneously, looking lost in thought. Ginny's head was on Charlie's shoulder, and he was stroking her hair comfortingly. Fleur and Bill were locked in an embrace, both looking quite somber indeed. Percy, the rat, was at the end of the table, staring down at his feet and looking quite red. Harry was murmuring words under his breath, looking pained. Beside him were Tonks and Lupin, who had only come at Mrs. Weasley's desperate request. They were not touching, but were seated very close, Lupin looking a bit nervous about being there, mixed with intense sorrow. Tonks looked terribly distraught, her hair a grayish brown, and tear stains visible on her cheeks.

Hermione, finally, couldn't take it anymore. She stood up, vividly aware of everyone's eyes on her, and took her plate to the sink, scraping the remains into the garbage. The sound seemed to magnify horribly, causing everyone to wince. Her breath labored, she turned her head away from the occupants of the kitchen.

"I'm going out," she said quickly, and Disapparated then and there, not caring about being rude and not caring what everyone would say. She couldn't breathe.

As soon as she fell into the sunlight of Diagon Alley, she fell back against a wall, tears pounding at the back of her eyes. _Would it always be like this? Would she always feel so broken? Would it never be the same?_ A shiver went through her body as she ran a hand through her insanely messy brown hair. It hadn't changed in the least since she was a child, she mused, tugging on a strand of it sadly. It was still thick, bushy, brown and completely unmanageable. _Ron used to say it was endearing._

She felt herself give a hollow laugh. She wiped her eyes hastily, as a few passerbyers were giving her sympathetic looks. She walked slowly into a shop, her head suddenly feeling like lead.

"Hello, dear," the aged voice of the shopkeeper called out. Hermione bent her head; her tangles acting like a veil. She didn't want any more _looks_.

As she pretended to browse through the books, she felt a chilling, familiar voice speak from directly behind her,

"Didn't expect to see you again so soon, Mrs. Weasley."

With a small shriek, Hermione whipped around, her large eyes meeting those of Derek Prewett's, his hauntingly annoying smile gleaming out at her.

"_You_!" she snapped, feeling her face flush. "What are you doing here?"

Derek gestured around him. "It's a bookstore. I need a new book." He leaned back against the bookcase she was browsing. "And what about you, Mrs. Weasley?"

"I need an escape," she told him plainly, wondering why she was even continuing this conversation.

Derek nodded, looking _almost_ serious, for once. "I understand."

"Oh, I'm sure you do," she said, teeth clenched. She thrust a large volume back into the bookcase in a particularly hard fashion.

"I do," he answered, looking right into her eyes. Hermione tensed, and looked down. She caught a ghost of a grin flicker on his face. "Really. When my parents died, I needed to just get away, all the time. I couldn't stand being around anybody, even the people I loved …"

"Look," Hermione interrupted irritably, restraining from hitting him again. "First of all, if you really understand my need to be alone, then _why are_ _you here bothering me_?" A wolfish grin met Derek's features, and Hermione fists clenched. "Second of all," she continued, scowling, "I do _not _care what you have to say, so leave. And third of all, if you're really here buying a new book, _go and buy it_!" Hermione turned with a huff, ready to leave the store. She felt a warm hand clasp around her arm, and she turned to Derek, furious. "Let go!"

"First of all," he said, smiling largely. Hermione let out a sound of frustration, "I know that, despite the desperate want of solitude, it is really actually better to be around someone." Hermione stopped for a moment, staring at Derek. "Second of all, I think you do care, you'd just never admit it." Hermione scowled, and wrestled free of his grasp at last. "Third of all," he said with a rush, as she started to walk away, "I've bought my book!" He held up a little bag in front of him.

Hermione had only gotten a few feet away from the store when she heard his voice ring in her ear, "Would you like to go to dinner with me tomorrow?"

Hermione span around, appalled. "How _dare _you!" she screeched, flinging her arms about wildly. "I have just –!"

"No, no," cut in Derek, looking bashful, "I mean as just friends, of course."

"I'm not friends with you," she spat out in return.

"Well, you might be, giving me the chance to win you over during dinner." He grinned.

"You sound disgusting," she told him fiercely.

Derek cocked his head to the side. "Yes or no, then?"

"_No_! I can't stand to be around you for a moment, never mind for over an hour in a civilized environment!" Hermione tugged her cloak tight round her shoulders, and turned to leave, her face flushed with anger.

"But you like it, don't you?"

His words seemed to echo in her ears, along with the slow, loud pounding of her heart, which seemed to have jumped to her throat. She couldn't explain it; she _hated _the little sod! He was rude, antagonizing and dreadfully blunt, but … he, in some deranged, twisted little way, was right. He talked to her not like she was a grieving, naïve, incapable widow but as a person. He made her feel _angry_, and it was so, _so _much better than the harsh sensations of bitterness and loss that had seemed to lately overcome her.

Hermione could feel him hovering just over her, and she didn't need to look around. "Dinner," she echoed, letting silence wash over her for a moment.

She turned around, staring straight into his dark eyes. "What time?"

---

The shadowy figure of an ex-Potions Master stood, looming and unmoving, in a corner, a crumbled piece of paper in his hands. He had been pacing for hours before, thinking, wanting, ignoring. In the end, he knew it was useless. It was just as they had told him.

_Four days_.

---

_A/N:_ I'm still looking for a beta, but I think, for the time being, I'm managing :) Thank you for all the reviews, much appreciated, really.

The song used in this chapter is_ Chasing Cars_ by Snow Patrol. I altered the lyrics a bit though, to fit the story better. Can we call that 'creative liberties', perhaps? ;)


	4. Chapter the Third

_Chapter the Third_

Numb

_---_

_I'm tired of being what you want me to be  
Feeling so faithless lost under the surface  
Don't know what you're expecting of me  
Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes_

_---_

Neville Longbottom was having an untroubled, cheerful, wonderful sort of morning. He and his wife had just come back from their month-long honeymoon to Italy, and both were more than happy to be home. The moment they had stepped off the plane (they had both agreed it would be much more adventurous to have an all-Muggle honeymoon), they were greeted by his grandmother, who told them with the utmost glee that she had bought them a house, right on the outskirts of London. They, of course, quickly Apparated to their new home, and found it completely furnished and perfect.

"I can't believe she did this," Neville had been repeating, mostly to himself. He, in all his life, had never known his grandmother to be an unexpectedly kind woman, more just the sort of person who did what they had to do in the face of righteousness.

"I do hope there won't be any infestations of Narfledoffs," said Luna, his new bride, in a rather dreamy fashion.

Neville grinned, but otherwise remained silent, until he felt her long fingers snake their way through his. "D'you like it?" he asked, slightly nervous.

"It has a wonderful aura," she said happily, leaving him to wonder if houses even _had _auras.

The _Daily Prophet_ lay, abandoned, on the table. "Hm," said Neville, picking it up, "fairly new, still, I think."

"The Daily Prophet is unreliable," Luna's voice drifted down the hall, for once sounding quite sensible. "Oh, dear, the bedroom has a few stray Mingledorfs … but don't worry, they may be invisible, but they're quite easy to catch …"

But Neville didn't catch the last of his wife's words. He stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the paper, the small words seemingly popping out at him:

Harry Potter speaks out about best friend Ronald Weasley's tragic death last week … 

His hands shaking, he dropped the paper. His face was a ghastly white.

"Neville," said Luna's voice, soon followed by her thin body, "do you think muddle-wart shrubs would be – Neville? Are you all right?" Her voice unchanged, but her eyes wide and fearful, she glided towards her husband, shaking his shoulder gently with a white hand. "Neville?"

"He's dead," Neville finally managed, his voice a mere croak. "Ron Weasley is dead."

Perhaps his day wouldn't turn out so well, after all.

---

The cool gray tiles of stone reflected dim light from the new moon, the cool night air just beginning to set in. The lonely figure, alone in an abandoned street, stumbled down the walk, her wand held out in front of her not only for light but also for an object to ensure she wasn't about to crash into a wall.

Once she entered a fork in the road, her tired, slightly irritating voice broke out against the eerie silence, "_Derek_!"

There was no answer. She let out a sound of immense frustration, squinting her eyes and obviously trying to spot out something. "Derek!" she whispered again, flailing her hands blindly in front of her.

A nearby door opened suddenly, pouring light out onto the darkened street.

The girl, who could now be seen as a young woman in her early twenties, looking infuriated, her bristly brown hair sticking out of her ponytail in odd angles.

"You're late," commented a rich male voice from the doorway.

"Excuse me?" she fumed, following him into the cramped-looking building, taking off her brown tweed jacket with haste. "What were you _thinking_? It's pitch black out there, and I've never even been to this place, which, obviously, makes it a bit difficult to find, and Lord knows your pathetic directions didn't help!"

The man, his red-gold hair covering one of his eyes in an attempted seductive manner, ignored her completely. "Why are you wearing Muggles clothes?" he asked blatantly.

"None of your damn business," she said, brushing herself off, and failing to calm her wild hair into a manageable plait.

"Well," said Derek, smiling a horribly addicting smile. Hermione grimaced, "I was the one who asked you out here. It's common courtesy to dress nicely when asked out."

"Where do we sit?" said Hermione, planning to use the poor widow excuse if he questioned why she didn't answer him. She looked into the fairly deserted restaurant with unease. An unsettling, prickling feeling took over her, and she primly pressed her finger tips together, trying desperately to ignore it.

As Derek guided her to the tables, Hermione let her eyes wander. Odd couples were seated here and there, holding hands, exchanging flirtatious compliments. Each table was complete with a small white rose, stainless steel cutlery, and little napkins with tiny hearts sprinkled every few centimeters. Voices were barely over a whisper, but the intensity and intentions of this restaurant were already plainly established.

"This isn't a date," she reminded Derek crossly.

"I know," he responded thoughtlessly, finally reaching the table and pulling out a chair for her to sit in.

"Oh, such a gentleman," she drawled, taking the chair and sitting in it with a slump.

Derek merely smiled _that_ smile. Hermione looked away, gritting her teeth.

A large window was right beside their table, the dark night atmosphere shining out at them. Hermione watched the stars, her eyes gleaming. Her lips were moving, ever so slightly, and a loose strand of hair had fallen, shadowing her eyes. She was thinking, hard.

"Menu," Derek's voice spoke, shoving a long red paper her way. "Ooh! I do think I'll have the chicken salad."

Hermione disregarded the menu. "Why did you take me out today, anyways? I hardly think you meant for us to sit around discussing the food all night long."

"Why not?" he asked passively.

Hermione fiddled with her menu idly. "Just get on with it," she said plainly. "I'm really not one for less than playful banter."

"Could have fooled me." He grinned. Hermione stared at him, not amused. He sighed, licking his lips thoughtfully. "I just want to get to know you."

"Do not," she shot back immediately, her hands crossed over her chest.

"Do too," he answered, looking quite shocked at her less-than-mature and quick response.

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Do not." She smiled at him, a fake one, of course, but it had been the first one Derek had ever seen out of her. A large, mystifying smile spread across his own face, one so unlike his usual large, playful grins. "I can do this all day, you know," she added, quite seriously, "I grew up with two stubborn-arse excuses for men as my best friends." She examined her nails while saying this, her eyes barely meeting his and her eyebrows raised.

"Fair enough," said Derek. "I actually asked you to dinner because I want to see how someone else deals with it."

_Deals with it_? Hermione reddened. What was she, a test subject? The anger that had seemingly disappeared for Derek suddenly surfaced again, as hot and furious as ever.

She opened her mouth, just as a slightly pudgy, pink-haired waitress approached them, speaking as though she was bored out of her mind (_which was a definite possibility_, thought Hermione as she looked around at all the lovesick couples), "Can I take your orders?"

"Oh, I think I'd like to try the chicken salad, darling," said Derek in a terribly flirtatious voice, sipping from his glass of water. Hermione choked on her own.

"And the lady?" said the waitress, blushing magenta at Derek's words.

"Tomato soup," she said, ignoring as Derek mouthed, _That's not even a meal!_

"Right." The waitress turned, walking quickly off towards the swinging doors of the kitchen.

As soon as anyone who mattered was out of earshot, Hermione spun around to face Derek, her face hot with rage. "How _dare you_ say that?"

Derek shrugged, looking passive.

Hermione clasped her hands very tightly together, going from a very red color back to normal. Her breathing relaxed and she opened her eyes, her gaze fixed on her hands. "Oh, and you are an _awful_ flirt," she added, as though it were a passing thought.

"She sure didn't think so," he replied, and Hermione lifted a napkin up to her mouth, hiding the tiny remnants of a smile.

---

"Dinner was terrible." Hermione swung her purse onto her shoulder, staring ahead determinedly.

"Oh, stop, you're flattering me!" Derek giggled in a terrible falsetto. Then, readjusting his voice to normal, he grinned. Hermione sighed; she had hoped he had abandoned that particular smile. "You're such a spoilsport, you know that, Hermione? Dinner was great."

"If you like arguing," she argued, biting her lip in the darkness of the street.

"Uh huh." Derek started hopping beside her, and Hermione glared daggers at him.

"Do stop that. I don't want the neighbors thinking I'm friends with a lunatic." She dug into her pockets for her keys.

Derek ignored her, skipping up the steps to her flat. "Lovely place," he told her. "Large, though. Must be lonely." Hermione dropped the keys she had just pulled out.

"What?" she snapped, staring at him in complete shock and fury. "How can you say that? Aren't you suppose to 'understand'?" She dropped to her knees, blindly searching around for her keys.

"Not if you don't talk to me," he said, also falling to her level. She ignored him, drawing her wand.

"What are you, a shrink?" She clasped her wand tightly between her fingers. "_Accio Hermione's keys_!"

"Huh?"

_Damn fucking ignorant purebloods_! raved Hermione, catching her keys in one hand with ease. "Never mind!" She hastily attempted to open her door, but after several disastrous and embarrassing tries, she gave up, slumping against her door with unexpected tears pounding at the back of her eyes.

A sharp breath escaped her lips, and she realized she was being silly. Trying to straighten up, she felt a pair of strong hands hold her back down. Derek was staring at her, his eyes wide like she had never seen them before. They were like hers, that first hour after she had found out. The spheres of blue had turned to streams and he seemed weak; lost.

"Hermione," he was saying, he sounded distant. She stared, trying to focus, focus … "Don't move." His hands were still holding her shoulders firmly against the door.

She let out a breath, and felt like she had let out everything. In one breath, she let out the walls she had been building, the lies she had been thinking, and the emotions she had buried. They screamed free; triumphant, before falling, one by one, onto to her. Each felt as though a blow to her body. Ron is dead, her side ached with pain. There's nothing you can do about it, her head throbbed in agony. Your fault, YOUR FAULT! Her chest seemed to collapse, but it had to be her legs. She felt herself fall, and hit the ground. Strong arms still held her, but they were moving now. Or she was shaking them.

Hermione blinked, the world focusing around her. Hot tears were on her cheeks, and she was shivering wildly, her hands clasp to Derek's, whose face was about as pale as she felt hers should be.

"I'm sorry," she told him, the words sounding bitter in her mouth. She rose to her feet, ever shakily, and without any effort, opened her door. "Bye."

"Wait," Derek's voice was strong and unwaveringly now.

She held the door open an inch, leaving him only to see a pair of big brown eyes staring at him, shining over bright in the night lights.

"Here …" He opened the door, and she didn't stop him. She didn't stop him, either, when he moved to hug her. Or when she felt a pair of arms, unfamiliar, new ones, rap themselves around her. And she didn't try to stop herself as she returned the embrace, her own thin arms tightening around his shoulders.

It seemed like ages before it occurred to Hermione she should pull away. And she did, her long waves covering her face, making it impossible to see her expression.

"I'm not going to lie," Derek told her flatly, but even he couldn't the ever present smile on his face, "it doesn't get easier."

"Thanks a bunch," she responded dryly, lifting her head, and meeting eyes with him once more.

Derek nodded his head, grinning. "Bye, Hermione," he said, holding a hand up.

She nodded. "Bye, Derek."

He Apparated on the spot. She didn't flinch as the pop echoed through the streets. She only stared, blankly, into the street, once again thinking hard …

"Hermione? Hermione!"

Hermione looked down, only having minutes to spot the person before she was jumped by a very familiar body. "Neville?" she croaked.

The young man pulled back, looking terribly somber. Another voice sounded from beside him, "Oh, you do look terrible. Have you been crying?"

"Luna!" whispered Neville, looking shocked.

Luna merely continued looking at Hermione, who hastily wiped away any tear stains. "Er – no, no I haven't." She regarded her two friends for a moment, in slight disbelief, before she said, "What are you two doing here?"

"We've just heard," said Neville woefully. "I'm so sorry, Hermione." He embraced her again, and cold realization dawned.

"Oh." Hermione felt a desperate feeling of discomfort surround her. She hugged her arms, and tried to avoid their eyes. "Well, yes. I … I'm sorry you couldn't make the funeral." She didn't know what she was supposed to say. Was it only polite to say sorry, too? A cool, unusual feeling fell over Hermione then, as she realized she didn't care.

"It's terrible …" Neville crowed, looking tearful.

"I never thought he'd die for quite a while. He was very strong," said Luna, as usual, not helping the matter.

"Er – yes." Hermione fiddled with her hands, tense in the silence. "How … how did you find out, anyways?" Her words were rushed, and Neville look at her with suspicion.

"This," he held out a small piece of paper in front of him.

Hermione took it. On the front it held a short announcement about Ron's death. Not the original, which she had shamefully taken to putting under her mattress at night. It seemed to make her feel … warm, when she was sleeping. If anyone found out, they'd probably tell her she was horribly morbid.

"Right." A lump formed in Hermione's throat. Clearing it, she looked between her old friends. Neville looked just the same, save for his tan, but that could only be expected after six months in Europe. Luna seemed to have grown up a bit since the last time Hermione saw her, which was the wedding. Her blonde hair had lengthened considerably, so much so that Hermione wondered whether she had put a charm on it, but then decided it was hardly a very Luna thing to do. In addition to that, her face seemed more … aged. Not in an old sort-of way, but in a way that gave the impression she was … well, wise. Her eyes seemed to not be as large as ever, and they held a certain glow, one that you could spend hours looking at, just trying to figure out what it was. Her jaw was more shaped, sharper and stronger than before.

Snapping out of her reverie, she forced a smile at her two friends. Neville managed one back, while Luna nodded her head, staring at her with a knowing look in her eyes. "I'd like to invite you in…" Hermione started.

"I understand completely," said Luna, before Hermione even had a chance to finish. She looked curiously at the younger girl, who nodded again, subtly, though, so Neville wouldn't see.

"What?" said Neville, and Luna smiled. Suddenly Hermione understood. Luna was helping her. She had lost a parent, too, perhaps she knew Hermione was not in a mood to be bothered by estranged friends. Her liking for the girl suddenly rose.

"Let's go," Luna spoke again, to Neville. "I'd rather fancy some hot chocolate!" Taking a slightly confused Neville by the hand, she called out to Hermione before they Disapparated, "Live life full and well, Hermione!"

Alone again, Hermione mused, deciding she rather liked it this way. Looking down, she realized she still had Neville's newspaper article in her hands. Wistfully smiling, and smoothed it out, idly reading it over.

Her eyes suddenly grew wide as she read on. No … it couldn't be … But as she re-read the article, she found it must be true. Quickly looking over the date again, she rushed into the house, leaving the article abandoned on the front steps.

The heading, in bold, was face-up, glaring out at anyone who dared to look down at it.

_**SEVERUS SNAPE TO BE PUT TO DEATH!**_

---

_A/N: _Lyrics by Linkin Park.


End file.
